


Little Boy, Little Boy

by iconicklaine



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iconicklaine/pseuds/iconicklaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 5.03 reaction fic featuring Kurt and Carole. </p><p>Title (and song lyrics) from "St. Judy’s Comet" by Paul Simon.</p><p>(Also posted on my Tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy, Little Boy

The first Thursday after he returns to New York with the girls, Kurt calls Carole. He knows she has the 3-11 shift that day and usually devotes Thursday mornings to household tasks and errands. Before he left they had sorted through every drawer and cleaned every surface—what was she going to do with her morning? She would be alone with her thoughts, and feelings, and grief and—

"Carole? Hi, I… I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a headache and I can’t remember if I should take Tylenol or ibuprofen," he says. It’s a lame excuse, but he’s put himself on the spot.

"Ibuprofen. How bad is it honey?"

"Not too bad, just persistent."

"Do you have a good doctor there? You really should chose a primary care physician and schedule a physical. Then, if you get sick, you won’t have to go to urgent care."

"Okay. How do I do that?"

On Sunday he calls his dad, per usual, and catches him up on everything. He exchanges a few pleasantries with Carole, just as he’s done every Sunday since he moved to New York, but nothing more. Then, the following Thursday, he again dials her number without thinking.

”Hi, honey.”

"Hi, Carole."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes, I just… um… can I run something by you?

"Sure."

"Well, you know I have this internship at Vogue.com, and my new job at the Spotlight, and now we’re starting a band and even though classes are almost over for the semester, I’m a bit overbooked. I need to cut back on something, but I’m not sure what—"

It becomes a regular thing. That summer he calls Carole every Thursday, and it’s not long before he doesn’t have to come up with an excuse to ask for her advice. He still talks to his dad every Sunday, who offers up his special brand of “Dad wisdom” whenever he needs it, but soon enough, he’s calling Carole whenever he has a simple problem, or doesn’t want to worry his dad. 

" _So, um, do you think Dad will be okay with Blaine sleeping over in my room next weekend? If not, I can go to Blaine’s, but I would prefer to…"_

_"I think we might have bed bugs, I have little bites all over my legs. Can you tell from a picture, if I send it to you?"_

_"I’m going to kill Santana…_ "

It’s not as if he never viewed Carole as a parent before, but by the end of the summer, he realizes that, up until very recently, he thought of her as a step-parent—emphasis on the “step”—and sometimes a friend.

He thinks back to the days before and after his dad and Carole married, when they were caught up in the excitement of wedding planning. They had fun together, high on the unusual thrill of becoming a family. When they moved into the new house, he tried to accept her bizarre kitchen organizing system and discount laundry detergent, her faux wicker lawn furniture and love of all things Rachel Ray. He adjusted, and smiled, and kept his “Martha Stewart” thoughts to himself.

And then one day, home sick with strep throat, Carole set him up on the couch with her traditional comfort measures and he felt this odd compression in his chest. He wanted orange juice mixed with 7-up, not ginger ale. Puffs with aloe, not Kleenex. And chicken noodle soup from a can? Was she serious?

He wanted someone to take care of him the _right way_.

He wanted his mom. He wanted to hear her sing to him, her favorite lullaby:

_Little boy, little boy  
Won’t you lay your body down  
Little boy, little boy  
Won’t you close your weary eyes  
Ain’t nothing flashing but the fireflies_

That was the day he decided he might be “one of her boys” but he would not be Carole’s second son. He would love her, and appreciate her, and honor her as family, but she could never be his mom. No. Absolutely not.

And she knew that’s how he felt. She knew, and she was fine with it. She was fine with it even when she lost her only son.

" _You have to keep on being a parent, even though you don’t get to have a child anymore_."

She was fine with it because she was a mom, and moms get it. They just want you to be happy, to do what feels right for you, even if it hurts their hearts, even if they wish it could be different. The good moms get it. Moms like Kurt’s mom, who sang to him even on her last day, and Finn’s mom, who loved Kurt just exactly as he needed to be loved.

It’s a Thursday morning in October when he leaves Blaine sleeping in their bed, slips on a sweater and takes his phone and coffee out to the fire escape. He looks out at the streets below, just waking up, and then flips through the pictures on his phone until he finds the one he’s looking for: Carole, sandwiched between Finn and Kurt on the new porch swing they had bought her for Mother’s Day, laughing.

He smiles. It’s easier now. Not better, but easier. He wonders if he’ll ever see that smile behind her eyes again.

He dials Carole’s number and waits for her to pick up. He wants to ask her about proposing to Blaine. Is it silly? Should he just get him a ring and give it to him for Christmas? Or should he…

"Hi, honey. You’re up early today."

He takes a deep breath and says, ”Hi, Mom.”

There is a brief moment of silence, and then a whisper: “ _Kurt_.”

It sounds like, _Thank you_.

"Did I wake you up? I can call back—"

"No… uh… this is fine. This is really… this is lovely. I’m here whenever you need me, honey," she says, her voice wet and happy.

Kurt holds back his own tears; he’ll crawl into bed later and cry in Blaine’s arms. For now, he’ll soldier on, like any good son would do.

"So I was wondering, what would you think if I…"


End file.
